


Ecclesiastes 4:11

by quercus



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-08-11
Updated: 1999-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/quercus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Much thanks to Jessica Harris for her assistance.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Ecclesiastes 4:11

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Jessica Harris for her assistance.

_Summer  
July 8, 1999_

The wind picked up first, a warm, moist, sweet-smelling wind that caught her hair and cooled her skin. She turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of air smoothing her face, then raised her arms and let the damp that had collected there evaporate and cool her.

When she opened her eyes, Mulder was watching, a smile curling his lips. "Enjoying this?" he asked, a note of teasing in his voice.

"Aren't you?"

In answer, he pulled off his suitcoat and, tossing it over a shoulder, loosened his dress shirt's collar and rolled up the sleeves. He too raised his arms, then turned so he also faced the wind. His tie flapped behind him like a kite. Taking pity, she walked around him, untied it, and tucked it into his front trouser pocket.

"Is that a barrel cactus, or are you just glad to see me?" Without opening his eyes, he burst into laughter, and the sound was like rain on the summer desert floor.

After a moment more, he dropped his arms and opened his eyes. "Back to work?" he suggested. She was lifting the hair off the nape of her neck; she dropped it and it flew around her face in the wind. As she took an enormous breath of the effulgent air, she revealed to him damp patches on the blouse beneath her breasts. His eyes dropped and his face flushed slightly, then he turned toward the abandoned house.

The house looked as though it had been bombed; the walls had literally fallen, the roof lay smashed on them. Debris caught in the wood and plaster and linoleum had turned dark from dust and age and sunlight. "Be careful," Scully warned Mulder, as she kicked a loose two-by-four out of their way. "Don't pick up anything before kicking it over. There are undoubtedly rattlers, scorpions, and black widow spiders living here."

"Go west, young man, and die," Mulder responded, obediently toeing over a splintered sheet of plywood. Myriad beetles scattered for cover, but nothing lethal emerged. "Yuck," he added, frowning, but he and Scully continued searching the grounds, quartering it, looking for evidence that could not be there after so long.

Scully thought how much of their work was like this: looking for what could not be. Yet that was her job, she'd come to accept. No, more than accept; to be challenged by, to be stimulated, frustrated, and utterly engaged by.

She raised her head, pausing in her search to study the sky to the southeast. The wind had raised a pink-brown curtain of dust. She could see it rolling toward them. "Mulder," she called, a note of uncertainty entering her voice. He followed her gaze.

"Holy cow."

"Yeah."

"Let's hurry." So they redoubled their fruitless efforts, with Scully calling out warnings to Mulder as she worked, keeping half an eye on him, half an eye on the ground before her.

"Kick, Mulder," she reminded him as she caught him reaching for a newspaper caught by a teddy-bear cholla. He jerked back and teased the newspaper away from its trap with the toe of his leather shoe.

"Look at the date," he called when satisfied it was innocent of vermin. The wind tried to rip it from his hands, and Scully looked not at the newspaper but the sky.

"Mulder," she warned, and pointed. The sky was now completely obscured by the dust cloud, and she could feel grit in her teeth and eyes. Overhead, a solid bank of bulbous purple clouds pushed ahead of the dust; the air smelled wetter and denser.

"A few minutes more," Mulder requested.

Scully nodded, but this time kept half an eye on the weather building around them. When the first bolt of lightning slammed ahead of them, she called, "Now, Mulder. Let's go now." She grasped his hand and pulled; he came willingly, but walked backwards, studying the collapsed house.

"We need to come back," he told her as they got into the rental. Before she could answer, the dust exploded down around them, streaming over the car's windows like dark brown rain. Visibility was zero; Scully couldn't see the hood of the car. "Shit," Mulder said, and she concurred. Gusts of wind rocked the car and an eerie howling noise increased in volume as the wind increased in speed. With the windows tightly closed, it grew stuffy in the car. Scully began to sweat again, and gently plucked at her blouse.

Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed, largely in silence as they listened and watched the dust storm grow in intensity. Then, even more suddenly than it began, it ended in rain, as if someone were hurling buckets of water at them. The dust turned to mud and clotted in the folds of the automobile, where the hood met the windshield in particular. As the downpour continued and grew in violence, the mud liquefied, dissolved, and disappeared.

But even as this happened, Scully began noticing how the desert floor was no longer red brown but silver -- the water was standing. Was rising. Unsure of the significance, she turned to Mulder and saw that he, too, was watching intently, his brow folded in concern. He glanced at her and nodded. She sighed and stretched her back.

When thirty minutes had passed according to Scully's clunky silver watch, the rain began to lighten and the clouds to lift. For the first time since the dust had descended, she could see more than a few feet in any direction. She turned again to Mulder and saw, beyond him, a glimmering motion. As she watched, it seemed to solidify and grow. Water. A wall of water was being built before her eyes.

She put her hand on Mulder's shoulder; he put his hand over hers and gripped. Silently, they watched as the water grew in all dimensions. After only a few seconds, she twisted the key in the ignition, grinding the starter in her anxiety. The engine roared and she took off, away from the water, into the desert. Mulder pointed and she saw a slight rise off to their left; trying to miss the barrel cactus, cholla, and volcanic rock outcroppings, she headed toward it.

The water caught up with them; she could see it in the rearview mirror, a sullen silver mass, like mercury rising in a thermometer. The rear wheels spun in mud; she put the car in second and floored it. Fishtailing for a moment, the car's wheels finally caught, or one of them did; they started forward again, this time away from the rise. Scully turned into the curve and felt all tires hit solid ground, then steered back toward higher ground. This time she ignored all obstacles and headed straight toward it. Mulder said not a word, but she felt his presence, his concern.

At last they reached the rise and she slammed on the brakes, skidding on the loose soil and shale. They simultaneously twisted in their seats to watch the water behind them. It continued to grow, as if rising out of the earth, and encircled the small rise. Soon, they sat on a small island, one rapidly growing smaller.

Finally, Scully looked at Mulder instead of the water. He was smiling, no, he was *grinning*, an enormous grin of delight. She burst out laughing in pleasure, and he laughed as well. "Jesus, Scully," he finally said, "This is amazing." And it was, she thought; it really was amazing, to sit there in the car, surrounded by swiftly-rising water while sweet air gushed in through the open windows and they attempted to read a battered, dirty newspaper from ten years past, trying to solve a case they had no business investigating even as they wondered if the water would sweep them away. An amazing life. Scully took her eyes off the paper long enough to sneak a look at Mulder's sweaty face, hair wind-tossed and sticking to his brow as he read with rapt interest the probably irrelevant paper. Her amazing partner.

_Autumn  
October 13, 1999_

Their booted feet, one pair suede, the other canvas, swung briskly along, kicking up small flurries of multicolored dried leaves, crunching them, leaving a dusty yellow trail behind. Both men had been silent for much of their journey. They walked closer together than the broad spaces beneath the trees dictated.

The shorter man, heavily clad in layered sweaters and a bulky coat, wore fingerless mitts. His longish hair was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail and his glasses slid down his nose. The taller man was dressed in an obviously expensive and attractive suit; he wore a long charcoal wool overcoat, unbuttoned, that swung gracefully with each long stride, and a cheery geranium-red wool scarf. The colors flattered him, as did the lines.

They would have looked, had there been an observer, like an academic meeting a remnant from the sixties, and the hypothetical observer would not have been too far wrong. For once, however, there was no observer. Just the two men, walking silently, surrounded by a comfortable nimbus of camaraderie, concern, and single-mindedness.

They were perhaps a mile and a half from the taller man's parked car, heading into a National Forest. Following no path, only the shorter man's lead, they studied the brilliant foliage, leaves glowing incandescently in the glassy light of late fall. Every now and then the shorter man glanced at his friend, pushing his glasses back up his nose. Although expressionless, the lines on the older man's face revealed him as burdened by too many secrets and fears.

The taller man was younger and his features less lined, but he too wore an air of ancient exhaustion. Of long hard times. Occasionally he shot a quick look at his friend, his face softening into rarely-expressed affection. He was ashamed of his shyness, although he knew it arose out of experience and pain. Nonetheless. At one point he gently touched his friend on the shoulder, and they walked that way for several paces. The older man looked up at him again and their eyes briefly met. Both men swallowed, and the connection was dropped.

Finally, the older man stopped and pointed. Ahead hunched a collapsing building. Built of what must have been handsome red bricks, it now was darkened, ivy covered, and deeply smudged with smoke. The windows and frames had been removed, as had the door and its lintel. The roof was missing except for chewed-looking beams. Perhaps the tiles had been taken along with the door and window. The house now looked like a skull, empty of any humanity.

For a moment, they stood and observed. The taller man rubbed his face and sighed heavily, then turned to his friend. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

The older man sighed, too, and finally spoke. "Come on, Mulder. I'll show you what I found." He led the way through the gaping remainder of an entrance and into the dark first floor. There was as much earth and leaves indoors as out, and the soft scuffling noise they'd made on the walk to the house continued inside it.

He led the way to a stairwell into a basement. Shreds of the carpet still remained under the nails that had held it in place; it looked like hair on a dying man's scalp. For a heartbeat they paused, and then Mulder took the lead, stepping cautiously on each tread. "Be careful, Frohike," he warned. "If anything happens to you, Scully'll kill me."

Frohike brightened. "Scully would care?" he asked hopefully, even though he knew he was being teased. "Hey, did you know she called me 'cutie' once?"

Mulder burst out laughing. "Yeah. And she calls Skinner 'sweet cheeks.'"

"No, it's true. . ." but then they were in the remains of the basement. Unlike the rest of the abandoned house, it was empty. Of everything. "Shit." Mulder twisted back towards him, puzzled. "I'm sorry, Mulder. It's gone. Every fucking thing is gone."

The two men turned in a circle, examining the evidence. Or more accurately, the lack thereof. Not a leaf, not a spider, not a grain of soil. Outside, a bird called sharply. As if in warning.

"Let's get out of here, Melvin." The older man grimaced at the use of his first name, but said nothing.

Back out in the woods, both men breathed deeply, as if clearing their lungs. Frohike shook his head. "I was just *here*, Mulder. Not a week ago. Byers found it in one of the paper trails he's been chasing. We came out --"

"All three of you?"

"Yeah. But we were careful, and who would follow us, anyway? We're just a bunch of cranks." This last was said bitterly. In some defeat.

Mulder put his hand on his friend's shoulder again. "It's okay."

Frohike sniffed loudly and wiped his nose with his mitt. "No, it isn't, Mulder. Don't even. Fuck." He sighed heavily and wiped his nose again. "Fuck."

Mulder pulled a handkerchief from his trousers pocket and handed it to him. "Jesus, Melvin, didn't your mother teach you anything?"

"Don't mention my mother, Mulder," Frohike said, but in better humor. He blew his nose, loudly and thoroughly, and then peeked in the handkerchief.

"You can keep it," Mulder said hastily, and Frohike gave him a cross look.

"You know, Mulder, you can be a real asshole even when you're being sweet." They started walking back the car, kicking idly at the mounds of leaves, enjoying hearing their crunch.

"I've never been sweet a day in my life."

"You are *so* full of shit. Remember that time you got the bubblegum out of Langly's hair?"

"That wasn't sweet. That was self-defense. He was popping that stuff everything."

"Bullshit. It was sweet. Hey, Scully thinks you're sweet."

"Unh-unh."

"Unh-hunh."

"Next you'll be telling me *Skinner* thinks I'm sweet."

"He does."

"Bullshit."

"He does, too. I know. Remember when you were in the hospital? After we brought you back from the Bermuda Triangle? We all went out for a beer afterwards."

"Who all?"

"Me, Byers, Langly, Scully, and Skinner."

"You are just *so* full of shit, Melvin."

"You are just *so* ignorant, Fox." They glared affectionately at each other.

"So where are Byers and Langly today, anyway? I thought it'd be like old times, just the four of us hanging. Go have pizza or something." No response. "Frohike?"

Frohike stopped and looked up at Mulder, his face curiously blank. "Have you noticed anything about Byers and Langly, Mulder? Anything, um, new?"

Mulder stared down at his friend, trying to think what he meant. "Are they okay?" Frohike silently nodded. Mulder shook his head, his expressive mouth open. Frohike just looked back at him. "Shit."

Frohike turned and started the hike back to the car. "Yeah. Can you believe it? You ever hear anything like that?"

"Well, yeah, but. Wow. When?"

"After Las Vegas. John was really down about Susanne. And, um, I guess. I don't know. I remember Langly said something about grow old along with me, but I thought he was joking."

"Wow," Mulder repeated, truly surprised. But glad. He realized he was glad. "Cool. You okay with it?"

Frohike cocked his head as if listening to his thoughts. After a pause, he said thoughtfully, "Yeah. Pretty much. I mean, sometimes I lie in bed and think, well, *shit*, but during the day, yeah. Well, one time I caught them holding hands at breakfast," and he started to laugh, an affectionate wheeze, and Mulder joined in. Relief and some kind of love, expressed through violent and noisy exhalations.

Mulder had to stop and wipe his eyes on his coat sleeve. "Oh, Frohike, I would give money to see that." But Frohike knew the tears Mulder was wiping away were not only from laughter, but also from relief. He felt the same way. Byers and Langly: Proof that more than shit can happen.

"Hey, there's the car." He pointed to his right. "We got off track a bit."

"Well, *yeah*," Mulder said, and they started laughing again.

Once in the car and buckled in, Frohike turned to Mulder. "I'm really sorry. We shoulda been more careful. I swear it was there, Mulder."

Mulder finished belting himself in and started the engine. Hands on the steering wheel in the ten and two o'clock position, he stared straight ahead, his handsome face blank. He looked tired to Frohike, and deeply disappointed, but all he said was, "Hey, that's okay. I'm used to it by now."

Frohike nodded, but he knew better. He knew how he felt, and he knew his friend well enough to know he felt the same way. His nose prickled and tears welled in his eyes; he pulled out Mulder's handkerchief and used it again, wadding it up to scrub at his nose. Fuck. Must be something blooming.

_Winter  
January 19, 2000_

"Mulder!" Skinner bellowed, irritated as hell at his subordinate. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath, shrugging deeper into his coat, wishing his gloves were warmer. "Mulder!" Still silence. "I'm going to fucking kill you, boy," he spoke loudly. "If you're smart, you won't come back, because you are fucking dead meat."

"Oooh, there's an attractive notion -- fucking dead meat." Skinner spun at Mulder's voice to see the man plowing up the hill toward him.

"Where the hell have you been, Mulder?"

Mulder pointed downhill, then wiped the snow off his face. "Just down there and to the right. There's a, a barn or something. Deserted and half-fallen down. But I think that's where it happened."

Skinner rolled his head back and stared into the lowering clouds, as if seeking answers from above. He shut his eyes and let the thickly falling snow strike his face. Unable to resist the temptation, he opened his mouth and tasted the snow. It melted as fast as his temper had. When he looked at Mulder again, both men were smiling. "Come on, asshole," he said affectionately, and headed down the hill, stepping carefully in the footprints Mulder had left.

The hill was steep, and Skinner understood why Mulder had climbed it half bent forward. It had been snowing for days and the landscape was buried in drifts and mounds of snow, obscuring the ground and disguising the trees as fluffy white blobs. He skidded his way down the hill; under the snow was a layer of ice from a recent brief thaw. How they'd get out of the area he wasn't sure.

The tracks began curving to the right and he looked up to see the barn. Shanty. Whatever. Skeletal in appearance, roofless, an entire wall missing, no doubt buried under the snow. He stopped, looked at Mulder, and shook his head.

"I know," Mulder admitted. "We'll never find anything in this. It'll be a miracle if there's any forensic evidence left in the spring."

"I'm sorry, Mulder."

"No. Don't be. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I dragged you out here for nothing. We'll be lucky to get away."

Mulder looked so disappointed, so forlorn, that Skinner took pity on him and resumed his delicate progress to the barn. What the hell. They were already here; it couldn't hurt to take a look.

Suddenly his foot slipped right out from under him; no doubt he'd stepped on ice. But he had no time to think. His feet literally shot up before him and he fell, hard, flat on his back. He lay there with his eyes shut for a moment, trying to decide if he was injured. When he opened them, Mulder's face was inches away, a worried frown creasing his brow. His too-long hair flopped into his face, and his Botticelli mouth was open in shock.

Skinner reached up and brushed Mulder's hair back. He smiled. "Isn't there a regulation about hair length?"

"I, ah, um. Are you okay?"

"Never better." Skinner laughed at Mulder's expression -- surprise, concern, confusion. "Help me up, buddy. I'm too old for this shit." Mulder leaned back onto his heels, grabbed Skinner's left shoulder and arm, and pulled. Once Skinner was sitting up in the snow, Mulder plopped down next to him. "What are --"

But before Skinner could complete his thought, Mulder'd put his arms around his chest, under Skinner's arms, and locked his hands at Skinner's back. "Pull your knees up," he instructed, and Skinner did. Then Mulder pulled up and backwards and Skinner rocked forward onto his feet. He rocked right over Mulder and pushed him backwards into the snow, Skinner falling heavily on top of him. Both men began to laugh.

"Shit!" Mulder said, twisting under him, "did you do that on purpose?"

"Give me a break. If I wanted to make a move on you, I wouldn't choose the middle of blizzard to do it." Mulder froze, staring up at him. Skinner had to laugh at him again. "Come on. Let's try this again."

Slipping on the melting snow and buried ice, the two men performed a complicated dance trying to maintain their constantly shifting center of balance. Finally, their trousers and socks soaked, they stood, clinging to each other for support. Breathless with laughter and something else, Skinner impulsively hugged Mulder, who responded with only the briefest hesitation.

When they broke apart, Mulder said, "Have I ever told you that you're a good boss? No suck up; really. The best boss I've ever had."

Looking at his wet and chilled subordinate, Skinner replied, "Not that good a boss, or you wouldn't be in this state. Your choice: a quick look at the barn or back to the car and the motel."

"Barn."

Skinner rolled his eyes and began shuffling through the snow toward the long-abandoned building. "As if I thought there was a chance you'd choose comfort and safety over discomfort and danger."

"Hey, hey, what d'you mean by that?" Mulder asked, following quickly, but Skinner ignored him and began to survey the barn. He seized Mulder before he could enter it.

"Let's just walk around it once before we go in." Together they paced around the building, awkwardly stepping over snow-clothed fallen logs and around lichen-covered tree trunks. The barn was built out of pine, thick with knots. It must have been holey even when new. On a steep slope, the barn's enormous double doors faced downhill, toward a broad meadow at the foot of the hill. They stood in front of those doors for a minute, studying the layout. Skinner noticed that Mulder was trembling. Then he noticed he was wearing jeans.

"Jesus, Mulder, what are you doing wearing jeans in the snow? Don't you know that's a quick road to hypothermia?" At least he had boots on. "Come on, let's get this over and get back to the car." With that, he stepped into the barn.

Immediately, he felt deeply chilled. No doubt a result of his wet clothes. He was wearing wool trousers and silk long underwear, but both were wet after repeatedly falling in the snow. He took a quick glance around, turning in a circle, looking out of the barn through the missing planks. There was no roof; he must be standing on it. The snow was falling more thickly.

"That's it. We're going," he decided and, taking Mulder by the arm, headed back uphill. It was hard going; the two men shortly gave up any pretense of dignity or even much ability and clutched each other as they slipped and recovered. Skinner realized he was sweating heavily with the effort, chilling him even further. Fuck.

The hill was significantly steeper going uphill than down, too, he decided, bent almost double. He could hear his labored breaths, hear Mulder's, as they struggled up. Not a hill, he decided, a fucking mountain. Denali. Everest. Annapurna. The Mons Olympus on Mars. But not a gentle hill.

He heard Mulder gasp and pull at him. He stopped, stretched his back, and took an enormous breath. Mulder stood as close to him as possible, and he felt an arm around his waist. Deliberately, he pulled Mulder into another hug. "When we get back to the motel," he whispered, "I'm taking the longest, hottest bath in the history of baths. And I go first." He felt Mulder laugh in his arms.

"Yes, sir. But we'll never get back at this rate." Mulder was right. Skinner took another deep breath and began the final push.

"It's ridiculous," he gasped out. "The hill is not that steep. In summer, we could stride right up -- oh!" He slipped, but Mulder caught him. "Shit. Where is the goddam car?"

"There." A large mound, almost entirely covered in snow. Fucking Alamo Rentals. He should have rented a Jeep. He missed his Jeep. He loved his Jeep: its bulk, its weight, its four-wheel drive, its powerful heat, and the great CD collection he kept in it. Either that or a Crown Vic. The only vehicles with enough legroom for either him or Mulder. Yet as bureaucrats, they were condemned to a professional lifetime of midsized cars and cramped leg space.

At the car, they wordlessly began brushing the snow off the windshield and side mirrors. Skinner said a silent prayer that the engine would start; he really didn't fancy dying of hypothermia, even in Mulder's arms. That last notion startled him and he stopped for a heartbeat, key in hand.

"Sir? Walt?"

"I'm okay, Mulder. Just a thought. Here, don't get all that snow in the car. For god's sake, Mulder. You grew up in snow country. That's better."

"Yes, dad."

"Get in and fuck off." But that only made Mulder laugh again.

Skinner beat the snow off his shoulders and coat, then swiped the top of his head, before climbing into the car. "Now we pray," he murmured, and turned the key in the starter. A whine, a stronger whine, and then the engine turned over. He felt a slight weight removed from his shoulders.

He let the engine run for a moment, making sure Mulder was belted in and settling himself into the seat as best he could. He apparently had shrunk a bit while out in the snow, and moved his seat forward a notch. He rolled his shoulders and then shifted into first gear. He felt the wheels slip and the car lurched minutely to the left and back, then the traction caught and they started forward. He heard Mulder sigh deeply, and sent a small prayer of thanks upward through the clouds.

The road was hard to see, buried in even deeper drifts than when they'd arrived. The road to the abandoned barn was off to their right, really, not even a road, just a trail, but the road they were on was no interstate. They had several miles to go before they'd reach anything paved and possibly plowed. The weight began to settle back onto him. He wasn't afraid, just tense and concerned. He was responsible, after all, for the man in the seat next to him. And Skinner took his responsibilities very seriously. Besides, Scully would kill him if anything happened.

Fortunately, they had a couple hours of light left. He should, god willing, reach the main road long before dark. He drove slowly and well, cautious in the weather. It was silent in the car except for the rhythmic swish of the wipers as they smeared the snow from the windshield. He chanced a look at Mulder before returning a steady gaze to the road. Mulder looked as tense as Skinner felt, hunched into his coat. The heater was inadequate, but at least a trickle of warm air was emitted from the vents.

He slowed the car, but Mulder said quickly, "What are you stopping for?"

"You're freezing, Mulder. I have a sweater in the trunk. I'll get it for you."

"No." Mulder's voice was firm, and Skinner risked another glimpse at him. He looked concerned. "Don't stop. Don't risk it. I'll be fine." Skinner knew what Mulder meant. He, too, felt reluctant to stop, almost superstitiously so. He pressed slightly on the gas, felt the car fishtail a bit, but didn't stop.

Time seemed to move as slowly as molasses. The air in the car grew marginally warmer. The snow fell thick as a curtain. Skinner felt his heart in his chest, in his throat, even in his wrists. Tachycardia, he thought to himself. Brought on by the tension of the situation. He consciously slowed his breathing, relaxed his muscles, trying to slow his heartrate. "Shit," he murmured beneath his breath, but Mulder heard anyway.

"What?" he whispered. Skinner shook his head.

"I just wish we were back at the road. No, at the motel. I haven't driven in weather like this in, uh, I don't know. Not long enough."

Mulder nodded. "At least in DC they keep the streets clear. Well, except in what, ninety-four? That was the big snow that closed the capitol, remember?"

"Do I not. If the weather wasn't closing it, Congress was. Hey, look. Is that the road?"

Mulder leaned forward, peering through the diagonal pattern of the snowfall. "I think so." Skinner slowed the car again, staring intently at the road. Suddenly, they were jerked forward, then sharply back. "Hey!"

"Wait, wait." Skinner grappled with the wheel, turning to the left. The car jerked again and suddenly he was on pavement. Not plowed, unfortunately, but better than a dirt road. He stopped the car gently, trying not to skid, leaving it angled across both lanes.. "This is better."

"Famous last words." Skinner gave Mulder as dirty a look as he could, but under the circumstances, Mulder simply laughed. After a pause, Skinner twisted in his seat. The road stretched on, empty and white, behind and ahead of them, for as far as he could see. Flat. Lined with leafless trees crouching under the weight of the snow. A low sky hanging above them like a creamy ceiling. And nothing nothing nothing else to see.

In the silence, in the solitude, Skinner turned toward Mulder and saw a handsome, middle-aged man. His subordinate. His friend, who'd believed in him enough to pull his ass out of the fire more times than Skinner believed himself worthy. Another isolated human being, alone in the universe, alone in life.

Mulder returned his look, evenly, calmly. As if he already knew something that Skinner was just beginning to become aware of. Intimations of mortality shone out of Mulder's eyes and Skinner felt a chill not of cold but of death, eternal, endless death. The last isolation. The moment stretched out as silent as the snow and then Skinner felt Mulder touch his shoulder. Grateful that Mulder had made this gesture, Skinner was able to reach out and slide his hands around Mulder's back, pulling him across the console to embrace. The two men sat in the car, arms around each other, heads leaning together. Silent. Alone. In some danger, perhaps, no, undoubtedly in danger. Yet for a brief moment, each felt the warmth of another body and the comfort of their friendship.

With a sigh, Skinner released Mulder. He wasn't sure if his impulse to hug Mulder was paternal, fraternal, or sexual, but they had a long drive ahead of them, on a snow-slicked road. He had plenty of time to sort out his feelings. Plenty of time to decide what to do. To talk himself out of doing anything at all.

As he drove away, heading back toward their rather ratty shared motel room, Skinner felt himself moving away from the shared space of just a moment before. He wouldn't repeat that, he promised himself. An impulse born of cold and fear. Foolish. Unnecessary. He sighed heavily and turned the car's lights on.

He needed to see the way back.

_Spring  
April 10, 2000_

The susurrations of the waves as they drew back and then gently slid ashore soothed him. His hair felt sticky with humidity and salt, and he felt slightly foolish in his suit on the beach, shoes and socks in hand, trousers rolled up. It was too chilly, really, to walk barefoot along the beach, but he had found the idea irresistible. He shivered in his suitcoat and wished he'd worn a sweater underneath, or a heavy jacket instead.

Only a little after dawn. Sea gulls screeched anxiously as they skidded over the waves looking for breakfast. Little brown birds scuttled ahead of him, nervously pecking at the speckled sand in search of their own meals. And all around was the sound of the ocean, speaking to the earth in an ancient ancient language.

He'd been walking for perhaps twenty minutes, ever since he could first see the beach, just before sunrise. He was on the west coast, so the sun was landward, a phenomenon that still amazed him, growing up as he did on the east coast. His body still believed the sun rose from the sea. Silly. As a child he'd spent many hours on the beach, in boats, sailing and soaring across the water with his family and friends. That was, of course, before his sister disappeared. When everything ended.

Now he strolled the beach, the sand cold and sticky and damp on his feet and between his toes, and breathed the sweeter air of the Pacific. Nothing to see; no houses here, just the unbroken sweep of beach and dune and scrub as far as his eye could see in the early morning light. Nothing until Japan, he thought, and slowly drew to a stop, staring westwards. Out beyond the margin of the land, literally beyond the pale.

The wind gusted into his face, pushing his hair into spikes, snapping his suitcoat. He rubbed his free hand across his face, feeling the bristle of his morning beard, and wiped sleep from his eyes. He was thirsty. Of all things, he'd forgotten to bring a water bottle. Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. He shivered again. Too cold to be barefoot; too cold to be alone on a beach at dawn. What a fool he was.

When he turned to resume walking, another man was on the beach. He could see him quite clearly, could see who he was, yet he refused to believe his eyes. That particular man could not be here. He could not. This was not what he'd flown four thousand miles for. His stomach twisted in distress as he realized this was a set up. He would die here on this lovely, lonely beach. Away from Scully. From Skinner. From his few and thus greatly-treasured friends. Tears filled his eyes. He wanted to drop to his knees. He sniffled.

The other man approached slowly, warily. No weapon in sight. He was very handsome. Tall, slim -- almost thin, dressed sensibly in boots and jeans and a flannel shirt with a warm leather jacket open in front. No hat, no sunglasses, no chance to mistake who it was.

And who was he, Mulder wondered, quietly awaiting his fate. Who was this man? A former partner, a former friend. Now an enemy, yet an enemy who had done him many good turns. Saved his life, even. Who had suffered profound, irreversible losses because of him.

Passion, Mulder thought in the last seconds before they met, actually meant suffering. From the Latin passio. With connotations of pathos, and patient. A smile quirked Mulder's mouth; of course he'd be considering the etymology of a word seconds prior to his death.

Yet he chose not to fling his thoughts eastward across the continent to the friendship and love he knew lived there. Rather, he focused his considerable attention on the feelings the man so near him now evoked. Tried to sort them out, to identify them, classify them, put them neatly away. Yet they fluttered away from him like the little brown birds had, scattering away, always away. All that remained was what felt, very sadly, like love.

And then his time was over. Krycek stood before him. Still no weapon in sight, just the man. His hair was short again, too short to be fussed with by the morning breeze. His earnest features shone in the light; he looked young and clean. He stared at Mulder almost in disbelief.

"I can't believe you actually came," he finally said. Mulder dropped his eyes and shrugged. "You're nuts, Mulder, you know that? You could have been killed."

Mulder looked at him curiously, still distant, still resigned. "And now I will be."

Krycek look puzzled for the space of one heartbeat, and then anger blossomed. "You shit. I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to *show* you, to give you what you want."

Mulder turned his face toward the ocean, into the breeze. Sunlight sparkled brilliantly on the waves, hurting his eyes. He hadn't even worn sunglasses. He felt tears on his face, but didn't move. Just watched the waves. Not a bad last sight.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Krycek step nearer and nearer, until he could feel the heat of his body, feel the cool leather against his left hand. Then Krycek placed a hand on Mulder's left shoulder and gentle turned him back, away from the ocean, back to him. "Look at me," he whispered. He pled.

Mulder resisted for only a brief second, then capitulated to the inevitable. He looked into Krycek's green eyes, an interesting green, hazel, really, like his own, but lighter, with highlights the color of the sea as it surged beyond them. He stared into them and thought: Eyes really don't have expression. It's the face around the eyes that conveys feelings. And so he widened his gaze and realized that Krycek was staring back at him in pain. That he, too, had tears on his face.

For a moment, Mulder couldn't speak. Wouldn't let himself, because he knew his voice would be thick with his sadness, his loss, his regret. Then he swallowed convulsively and asked, "What do you want from me?"

Krycek's face twisted; Mulder thought he glimpsed frustration and pity there, and then the hand on his shoulder began gently pulling Mulder toward Krycek, the hand slid down his back and pulled him closer as Krycek stepped nearer and Mulder, for reasons he refused to examine, put his arms up and embraced his enemy, his murderer, and rested his head on Krycek's shoulder. His breath hitched in his chest, but Krycek's warmth was comforting, reassuring, and Mulder felt cared for, physically, in a way he hadn't in thirty years. Maybe this is death, he thought, and maybe it isn't so bad.

The two men stood entwined on the beach for long minutes, the wind pushing at them, and the waves rolling nearer. Mulder began to shiver even harder, despite Krycek's warmth, and Krycek gently stepped back and tenderly turned him the way he'd come. "Let's get back to your car," he murmured, and Mulder obediently went. Arm in arm with death.

The effort of walking in the deep sand helped warm Mulder, although his feet still felt frozen and he continued to shiver, tremble, really, his teeth literally knocking, but he began to think again, to wonder what was happening. Yet he kept his arm around Krycek's waist and even pulled him closer. "Why?" he finally asked, his voice strained and scratchy sounding.

Krycek sighed again. "Jesus, Mulder. I assume you're here because you got my email? Because you want what I said I had?"

"But wasn't that just a ruse to get me here?"

Krycek kept walking, tugging Mulder along a little more briskly, but said, "If you believe that, why are you here?" Mulder didn't answer, didn't even consider answering. Finally, Krycek said, "Are you telling me you -- You came here to be killed, didn't you. "

Mulder felt a rush of affection for Krycek. He *would* understand. No one else would. But he was so tired. Too tired and too cold to answer. He dropped his head on Krycek's shoulder again, as they staggered now up the slight incline to where his car waited. He heard Krycek swear under his breath.

Finally, they reached the car. Mulder just stood there, swaying in Krycek's embrace. Krycek turned him so his back was to the car and gently pushed him against it, then released him and began digging through Mulder's pockets. "Where's the key, Fox?" he asked just as he found it.

With some difficulty, Krycek got Mulder into the passenger seat, released the catch so the seat slid all the way back, and then tilted it almost flat. Now Mulder could stretch out; he rolled half onto his side, facing the driver's seat. He could hear Krycek open the car's trunk, and some knocking around, then a layer of sweaters was tucked around him, and socks awkwardly pulled onto his feet. He didn't help, although he did wonder what it was like to make do with one arm and one hand. Finally the passenger door was closed. Krycek climbed into the driver's seat and started the car, playing with the heater. He tilted the driver's seat back, too, and lay on his right side, looking directly into Mulder's face across the console between the seats.

"Mulder," Krycek said slowly. "You're suffering from a mild case of hypothermia. You let yourself get too cold. When you warm up, you're gonna kick my ass. So let's talk now, while you're still out of it."

"You have a nice ass, Alex," Mulder said sleepily. The warmth was lovely, relaxing; he felt very kindly toward his rescuer. Alex, however, simply rolled his eyes.

"Listen to me, Mulder, you," but then Krycek started laughing, really laughing hard, and finally choked out, "You have a very nice ass, too, Mulder," and then they were both laughing. "You do! It's true! I thought so the first time I saw you, it," but then he couldn't talk anymore.

Mulder's laughter left him with a loopy smile on his face, but he knew Krycek was right. He'd been a little hypothermic, but he was coming out of it now. He knew where he was, with whom he was. It was still all right somehow. He stared frankly at Krycek's handsome face, almost beautiful in the slanting light of early morning, smiling at him from an odd angle from the car seat next to him. Without letting himself think about it, Mulder reached out and stroked Krycek's face. He put all his curiosity, all his confidence into that touch.

Krycek stopped laughing and stared back: astonished? Dumbfounded? But when Mulder's fingers reached his lips, Krycek opened his mouth and turned his head to capture them between his teeth. Mulder felt a warm tongue lick his fingers; the sensation brought a rush of desire to him so strong that for a moment he forgot whom he was touching, whom he was desiring. He swallowed again, and then rolled forward, stretching out toward Krycek.

Krycek released Mulder's fingers and pushed himself forward as well. Mulder let his hand slide back around Krycek's neck. It was awkward and uncomfortable to lean across the space between the seats like this, but Mulder pushed farther, twisting himself almost onto his stomach, bracing himself with his left hand on the console. He began nuzzling Krycek's face, snuffling at his delicious salty scent. He put his nose in Krycek's ear and then his tongue, tasting the sea salt. He gently bit Krycek's earlobe and then licked at his jaw.

Krycek was trembling, perhaps from the awkward position, perhaps not. His eyes were closed, the thick lashes heavy on his creamy skin. His mouth was open, the lips slightly dry and a little chapped. Mulder studied him as carefully as he had anything in his life. Then he put his face against Krycek's again, both of them trembling with the strain and tension. Mulder felt something unclench within him, or perhaps something unfurled, something that sent tendrils out, fresh tendrils of feelings he wished not to acknowledge but there they were. Here they were. Lying in a rental car on a beach at the edge of the continent. At the edge.

"Alex," he whispered, and Krycek opened his eyes. Then Mulder kissed him.


End file.
